


aegrescit medendo (the remedy is worse than the disease)

by dragon_zena



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Martin is mentioned bc I ship jon/tim/martin, Sickfic, and i just think. they should all date., but this is self-indulgent, there's like very vague spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:09:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21878671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_zena/pseuds/dragon_zena
Summary: "Tim doesn’t walk into Jon’s office as much as he used to, so it’s pure luck on Jon’s behalf that he chooses to enter the room just to see him wearily reading over statement notes. It doesn’t look like the man is absorbing any of it, dark eyes flecked with unnatural gold, spinning dizzily as they move from side to side at a stuttering pace. He doesn’t even seem to have noticed Tim’s entrance, and Tim isn’t too keen on letting the man know he’s there, either.But."In which Jon gets sick and Tim begrudgingly takes care of him.Verybegrudgingly.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker
Comments: 29
Kudos: 550





	aegrescit medendo (the remedy is worse than the disease)

**Author's Note:**

> So, I finished The Magnus Archives about a week ago, and I'm just. Really sad about Tim. And I never stop thinking about _"I am not going to lose you, again!"_ And then I got sad because!!! Their relationship just...got fucked! Hate that...and so I. Well. *gestures at this fic* 
> 
> I don't know if the characterization is correct on either of their parts! And this is mainly self-indulgent...even still, I hope that you enjoy reading it...!

Tim doesn’t walk into Jon’s office as much as he used to, so it’s pure luck on Jon’s behalf that he chooses to enter the room just to see him wearily reading over statement notes. It doesn’t look like the man is absorbing any of it, dark eyes flecked with unnatural gold, spinning dizzily as they move from side to side at a stuttering pace. He doesn’t even seem to have noticed Tim’s entrance, and Tim isn’t too keen on letting the man know he’s there, either.

But.

He whistles lowly, startling the man, and it sounds one-note, disinterested. “Didn’t know that you _could_ get sick, boss.” He stuffs his hands back into the pockets of his bomber jacket, leering over Jon with a raised eyebrow. “With the sudden weird eye powers and everything.”

“Ah, Tim,” Jon starts, staring at him with dull eyes. “Haven’t seen you here in a...in a while.”

"Yeah," Tim hums, “You look like shit.”

"Yes, well." Jon huffs, weakly glaring in Tim's general vicinity. "We've all been sick before."

Tim snorts, watching the man push himself out of his chair with quivering arms, "And you're this useless every time, then?"

Jon does not answer him, hair a thin curtain over his eyes. Tim rolls his own and continues. 

“Anyway, we’ve been over this. If you’re sick, just go home.”

Jon just blinks blearily at him, slow, as though he hadn't absorbed anything that Tim had just said.

Tim should leave him here. It’s not like he’d die from a fever, anyway. And his patience isn’t as abundant as it used to be. Not with Jon. 

There’s a part of him that wishes that Martin were here; the man had managed to latch onto his kindness with an iron grip, even though Tim _knows_ that he’s hurting just as much as any of them are. He’s not...he’s not angry. He’s firmer than he used to be, maybe, jumping to support Jon more often than not, and god, sometimes it pisses Tim off, makes him feel...betrayed. Abandoned. But Martin is not angry. He hasn’t let the wrath and despair consume him, yet. And that’s—that’s good.

But Martin isn’t here, having been away for the day. No one is here, actually. It’s just Tim and Jon. And maybe Elias, who he does not want to think about.

At the end of the day, he looks at Jon for what must be too long. The man snaps something—a barbed question, maybe—at him, and before Tim even comprehends what the man had said, he’s already saying “fuck it” and walking out of the office.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

He wants to say that he’s surprised to find Jon passed out at his desk the next day, in the same exact clothes as last night, but he’s not. He doesn’t really care, either. He’s not Jon’s keeper. Jon is a grown man that should know his own limits, and Tim stopped caring about those limits a few weeks after the worm incident.

He repeats these things in his head even as he raps on Jon’s desk with his knuckles, as Jon’s head shoots up, eyes wild and almost glowing. He repeats them as he grumbles about having to take care of Jon, as his wraps one arm around the man’s torso so that he doesn’t crumble to the ground on the way home. He repeats it, ignoring Jon’s questions, weak and unlaced with whatever everyone calls it—compulsion? And eventually they’re moving in silence because Jon's throat dries up, and Tim hadn't been talking, in the first place.

Jon is surprisingly difficult to carry, despite the fact that he’s smaller than Tim and weighs way less. Part of the problem is, of course, the fact that he’s too out of it to walk in a manner that isn’t reminiscent of a drunkard, and the other part is that he’s a beanpole and hard to keep a decent grip on, between discombobulated mumbling and attempts to turn tail back towards the Institute.

Once they finally get to Tim’s house, lonely in that it’s meant to hold four family members but only houses one, he wastes no time in ushering Jon in and getting him settled in one of the extra bedrooms. Danny’s is unused, but every room in the house is fine to wander into except for Danny’s. Never Danny’s.

He leaves Jon to turn the heat on, the cold more evident now that the heat of Jon's body is gone, and he comes back with a wet towel and fever reducers, holding them out to Jon with a blank face.

Jon just stares at him, and that's just it, isn't it? All he knows how to do now is stare and look and watch. To brandish his eyes like a weapon. Tim sneers, baring just enough teeth and animosity for the other man to blink and look away, remembering himself.

Tim wishes that it was enough to make him come back, completely, but he's given up on that.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

About an hour later, Jon is delirious.

That much is obvious, from the way he drifts in and out of consciousness without prejudice, murmuring about burns and tunnels and cobwebs and _spider legs, spindly little black legs, hairy and long and covered in—what’s that, what’re they covered in…?_ And he gasps out fear and whimpers regret and sighs out resignation, and Tim has to leave the room. Has to remind himself that he doesn’t care, that it’s too late for that, for shaking Jon out of the nightmares that he frequently dives into head first. 

He stands just outside of the door once he closes it, presses his forehead into the cool wood and takes a deep breath. 

A weak whisper from the other side, “I’m sorry, Tim,” and Tim backs away and leaves to get more medicine.

Jon is even worse when he comes back into the room, but he takes the medicine—some NyQuil that he bought a few years ago and never opened—and falls back against the bed. 

His chest hitches, and he presses the side of his face into the pillow, squeezes his eyes shut as the tears start. He's painfully out of it; Tim knows this because Jon usually hides. He's hidden in statements and behind a stuffy exterior and Tim has seen him hiding behind his trash can in hopes of uncovering something, anything to justify taking his paranoia out on his coworkers. He's not good at it. He's even worse at it when he's suffering with a fever of at least 103.6 degrees.

“What?” Tim asks, brusquely, and it immediately sets Jon’s rambling off, his voice a low rumble.

When Tim tries to move away again, Jon latches onto his wrist, and even that small movement seems to take up most of his energy, his arm shaking. Tim can't understand the small litany rolling off of his tongue, airy and quaking, until he leans in.

He's just...apologizing. It's one big apology.

And Tim is still tired of hearing those, meaningless as they are, but he...he kneels down next to the bed, anyway, and he listens. Jon won't ever be as honest as he is in this moment, too exhausted to perform, to maintain the feeble curtain he’s tried to keep up, this whole time.

“...sorry for so many things,” Jon pants out into his hand, slurred. “I’m sorry for being p—for being paranoid and dis-distrustful...I’m sorry for not being...not being there. I’m sorry about Sasha, fuck, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I did this...and then I wasn’t. Here. And I left you to deal with ev-everything on your—on your own, and I’ve lost you because of it, but I c-can’t seem to—to stop...I just wish it would all... _stop._ I don’t want to keep doing this, Tim...I’m—I’m scared of myself.”

He pauses, and his grip loosens, and his moment of lucidity is over. Tim knows this because Jon starts to murmur, quiet and bleary, “Just let me burn out. Just let me burn out, then I c—I can’t let it happen again.”

Tim tries to pull his hand away, breath hitching, but suddenly Jon’s grip is tighter than before, and he stares in his general direction, eyebrows furrowed and eyes glassy.

 _"Please,"_ he whispers, ragged. His chest is heaving with half-formed sobs, and his face is screwed up in agony. 

Tim sighs and uses his free hand to replace the wet cloth at his forehead, watches the way that Jon relaxes at its coolness. He buries it into the other man's hair, streaked in white, and then he simply sits there, running scarred fingers along the other man's scalp. He tries to ignore how Jon melts under the touch with a relieved sigh. Doesn't think about how Jon had allowed him to do this once, before everything with Prentiss, with worms and running and Sasha— 

Tim pulls his hand away as if burned. Jon does not stir, so he rushes from the guest room and into his own. And if he stares at the ceiling for hours, thinking about how Jon had leaned into his hand before slipping into sweet unconsciousness, how genuine his apologies were, how genuine his plea for an end was, there’s no one to hold him accountable for it.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

He wakes up to a light thumping from his washroom and curses in agitation, getting out of bed and grabbing the bat at his bedside, grumbling as he goes. He has enough of this at the Institute. He's tired.

He slowly opens the door to his laundry room, shoulders tense, only to sigh, ambivalent.

Jon. It's just Jon. Struggling to stand and trying to force a bedspread into his washing machine, like an idiot. Tim watches his body quake with effort, pinches the skin between his brows.

"What are you doing," he grits out, and Jon starts, head snapping up from its place in the washer. The sudden movement obviously disorients him, and his eyelashes flutter before he tilts forward. Tim reaches him before the ground does, even though the man is awake the moment his face touches Tim's shirt. "Why aren't you in bed."

“I might have,” Jon starts, sounding winded and embarrassed, “overextended myself.”

“Oh, did you now?” Tim responds sardonically, bemusedly watching the man push off of his chest with trembling hands. 

Jon doesn’t answer, but he does scowl and turn his head away to stare at the wall at their side, so there’s still something slightly satisfying there. Tim snorts, half-supporting and half-forcing Jon back into bed. The man is staring at him again, but it’s not a dark, thousand-yard stare. It’s just—it’s just Jon.

“You stripped and washed the guest sheets so you’re gonna have to deal with one of my old ratty ones.”

The other man blinks before clearing his throat, “Sure.” 

He promptly gets a blanket to the face and starts to splutter, which quickly devolves into coughing. 

Tim allows himself to chuckle, short but genuine. He doesn’t think that things will ever be how they used to, but he lets himself have this moment.

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, this really was way longer and harder to write than I expected! I hope that you enjoyed reading it...
> 
> If you liked this, and you would like to support me, I have commissions open! You can find information about those on my twitter, which I'm about to link!
> 
> And if you just wanna, like...hang or see what I'm up to, then [this](dragon-zena.tumblr.com) is my tumblr, and [this](https://twitter.com/Dragon_Zena) is my twitter!
> 
> Once again, I hope that you enjoyed reading it! Thank you so much for reading.


End file.
